If I’m on my game, I’m on my game; if I’m not, I’m not. But count on me to give one hundred percent, and I’ll count on you to leave me to do my thing.
During that emotional changeover, all I could think about was my dad, and everything he’d been through. He was born in 1942, in Shreveport, Louisiana, and he’d suffered all kinds of oppression and racism in his life. He had a tough time, but he was determined to keep his family from the same tough time. He’d pushed me and my sisters, hard, to become the best players we could possibly be. Somehow, against all odds and against everyone’s low expectations, he pushed us to the very top levels of the game. People in tennis seemed to either admire this about him or to resent him for it. There was no in-between. Either way, there’s no denying that it was because of him that we were even here at Indian Wells. It was because of him that thousands and thousands of young black athletes could now look to Venus and me as role models. And it was because of him that a great many of those young black athletes were picking up their first tennis racquets. I thought, My dad doesn’t deserve this kind of grief. Venus doesn’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I prayed. Right there on the court, during the changeover. I said a simple little prayer that just about changed my life. I said, “Jehovah, give me the strength to get up from this chair. Give me the strength to finish this match. Give me the strength to persevere.”
I actually spoke these words out loud. Well, not out loud in any kind of public speaking voice, but in a whisper I could certainly hear above the din. I didn’t ask Him to help me win. I didn’t ask Him to help me with my serve. I didn’t ask for anything but the resolve and strength of character to power through a difficult situation. That’s all. Really, all I wanted was to walk off that court with my head held high and to somehow be a better person because of it.
There’s a wonderful scripture in the Bible, Ephesians 6:10–17, that talks about the shield of faith, and I called it to mind here: “Put on the complete suit of armor from God, that you may be able to stand firm against the mechanisms of the devil.… Stand firm, therefore, with your loins girded about with truth and having on the breastplate of righteousness, and with your feet shod with the equipment of the good news of peace. Above all things, take up the large shield of faith with which you will be able to quench the fiery darts and burning missiles of the wicked. Also, accept the helmet of salvation and the sword of spirit that is God’s word.”
So I stood and cloaked myself in that shield and went back to work. I tried to tune out the fiery darts and burning missiles of the Palm Springs set and play my game, to let all that venom fall softly to the stadium floor, and to work my way around it, and as I stepped back on the court I heard that lone voice of support yet again: “Come on, Serena!” It was such a powerful, positive cry! A true Godsend.
The “shield of faith” thing helped, too. It really did. Stand… having on the breastplate of righteousness… Those words gave me the power to believe that these people couldn’t touch me. It let me feel invisible and invincible. Most of all, it let me get back to the game.
Initially, I thought I’d made the situation worse. I took the court after that changeover feeling recharged and refocused, that the match was now in my hands and in my heart, but then I double-faulted right away. It felt to me like I’d given the power of that moment right back to the crowd—and to Kim Clijsters. Somehow, I managed to string together a few points in a row and hold serve. And then, at 2–2, I took the next four points in a row against Kim’s serve, to go up a break. It was a thrilling turnaround and it seemed to quiet the crowd. They were still on me, but now it was just garden-variety-type heckling. It wasn’t so personal.
Unfortunately, the crowd wasn’t quiet for long, because Kim broke me right back, bringing the angry mob right along with her. They were all over me, all over again, and I allowed myself to get swallowed up once more. Kim held serve to go up a game. Then she pushed me to break point in the next game, which would have put her up 5–3 in the second set and serving for the match. It was a key point in the match, obviously, and I hated that the crowd was so much a part of it. The only good thing about all that noise and nastiness was that it seemed to be rattling Kim almost as much as it was rattling me. By some odd mix of luck, will, and justice, I pushed the game back to deuce on an unforced error. It was like we each took turns being pushed off our game by the crowd, and now it was my turn to help with the pushing. My serve had been hit-or-miss the entire match, but here I unleashed a 114 mph bullet for an ace—my biggest of the tournament!—to help me hold and knot the set at 4–4.
Once again, I let myself believe the momentum that had been sucked from that stadium before the very first point was once again on my racquet—and I carried that belief into Kim’s next service game. Down 30–40, she misplayed a drop shot that I managed to reach, which put me back up that all-important break. The crowd wasn’t too happy about this latest turn. They’d been relatively quiet when it appeared that Kim was in control, but now that I had battled back into position to serve for the set, they were on me again. It was like I’d set them off—and now they were madder than ever, because it appeared I might deny them the knockout jeer they seemed to desperately crave. At one point during my next service game, it appeared a line call had gone my way, and the fans started jeering—right in the middle of the point!
I’d never seen such terrible behavior, and I’d certainly never been on the receiving end! I wanted to climb into the stands and fight these people, but at this late stage in the match, with the second set finally within reach, I told myself I wouldn’t let this ugliness push me from my goal. Here again, I was helped in this resolve by that same lone voice of support coming from the stands: “Come on, Serena. You can do it.”
I heard that and thought, Okay, Serena. Keep it together. Just hold serve and you’re back to even. Just hold serve and all this energy will shift over to your side of the net. I figured I had this one guy on my side and that was all I needed, so I pulled myself together and did just that.
Unfortunately, the seesaw continued to teeter in the third set. I went up 0–40 in Kim’s service game to start the set, but she hung on to take the first game. For me, it was one unforced error on top of another, and each one seemed to allow Kim to play with a little more confidence. Until the seesaw tilted back in my direction. Then I’d capitalize on one of her mistakes and go on a momentum run of my own. That’s what happened here. I took the next five games, to take a commanding 5–1 lead in the third set, up two breaks.
I thought, That should keep these people quiet!
I ended up winning the match 4–6, 6–4, 6–2. I don’t know how I did it, but what mattered to me most of all at just that moment was that it was over. It wasn’t about winning. It was about powering through. At the same time, I remember feeling badly for Kim Clijsters. She’s a great girl. Absolutely, the crowd affected her, too. Neither one of us deserved to be caught in such a hateful moment, and as a result I don’t think either one of us got to play our best tennis that day. We’d each been having such a strong tournament, it was a shame for the championship to be decided on such a pair of unremarkable performances.
By the end of the match, a good portion of the crowd had come over to my side. There were still boos, but it was almost like being at any other sporting event. Once I went up those two breaks in the third set, it seemed inevitable that I would win, and the crowd softened. I imagined the fans felt badly about how they treated me and my family at the outset, and that explained why the mood of the stadium turned a little bit. Not a whole lot, but a little.
In the postmatch interview they do on the court, I thanked my dad and Venus and the few people who cheered for me throughout. “And to those of you who didn’t,” I said, “I love you anyway.” My throat was all knotted up. I tried to smile. I didn’t want to choke on my words in front of all those people, so I kept my speech short. I held my head high and said what I needed to say, and then I
waved to the crowd and disappeared into the runway beneath the stadium.
You want to talk about strength? It was harder—way harder!—to get through that postmatch interview than it was to play the match itself, but I would not be reduced by these people. I would rise above them. And it would take every measure of strength in my nineteen-year-old frame to lift myself from this moment.
I was crying when I left the court, but I didn’t want anyone to see so I kept wiping away my tears. I was tired and sweaty, so that helped. The tears just blended in with the anguish of the match. I choked up, too, during the press conference afterward, but the whole time I kept thinking of Althea Gibson and how she had to deal with some of the same vitriol. I remembered reading that Althea had to sleep in her car when she was out on the road traveling to all these tournaments, because she couldn’t stay in the hotels. I don’t know if I could have done that, but she did it so I wouldn’t have to. She was a true tennis pioneer for African-American women. Zina Garrison, too, a couple generations later. She had her own trials to get past while she was walking the path Althea had set. And now here I was, all these years later, at my favorite place to play, in a supposedly enlightened time, hearing the same garbage all over again.
I look back now and think something could have been done about this situation before it got out of hand. Some tournament official could have gotten on the loudspeaker and explained to the fans that Venus had been legitimately hurt, that I had nothing to do with her withdrawal, that every effort had been made to cancel that semifinal match in a more timely manner. Some effort could have been made to quiet the crowd. But no one did anything. The WTA people just sat there with their mouths open as all these people beat up on a little girl. The Indian Wells people just sat there with their mouths open, too. Everyone was in shock, I think—but that’s no excuse.
I could cry about it now if I wanted to, but I choose not to. I could lose sleep over the sight of that little girl—me!—wearing her adorable pink Puma jumper, and her braids, and playing her heart out in front of such an angry mob. But I choose to gain strength from this sorry moment, not to give it away. I choose to recognize it for what it was, to learn from it, and then move past it. And yet I call attention to it because I believe it’s instructive, because I think we need to call out bad behavior, especially when it cuts across racial lines and is directed at our children. After all, that’s what I was at the time, a child. Say whatever you want about my dad and how he handled our careers when we came onto the scene. Say whatever you want about me and Venus and how our approach to the game may or may not have been different from the approach taken by the other girls on the tour. At the end of the day we were just a couple kids, trying to do our best.
We need to hold each other accountable for our actions, don’t you think? Nobody really talked about this at the time, and Venus and I never really talked about it, not even in the car ride back to Los Angeles with our sisters. We all drove back together, and it was the strangest, most unsettling ride, because usually after a big tournament win we’d all be giddy and excited. But here it was like we had been stunned into silence. We all knew what we’d just seen and experienced, and it just kind of hung there in the car with us, like a pall.
In some ways, it’s with us still. You can see it in the stand Venus and I took afterward. We refused to return to Indian Wells. Even now, all these years later, we continue to boycott the event. It’s become a mandatory tournament on the tour, meaning that the WTA can fine a player if she doesn’t attend. But I don’t care if they fine me a million dollars, I will not play there again. They can also suspend you from the next tournament, but my feeling is that if I go back to Indian Wells I’ll send the wrong message to little black girls who for whatever reason have chosen to look up to me, who might have a dream of lifting themselves up and out of their present situations and becoming something else. If they fine me, they fine me. If they suspend me, they suspend me.
As I write this, it looks like I can keep to my principles on this and I won’t be fined or suspended—but I really don’t care either way. I have a responsibility to those little girls who look up to me, just as I have a responsibility to myself. They might not even know what happened at Indian Wells in 2001, but I’ll know. And I’ll know that if I don’t make my small stand on this, it will be harder for them to make their small stands when they come up.
It’s amazing to me how every year some tour official comes to me and asks, “Are you playing Indian Wells this year?” It’s as if we never had the conversation before. And every year I say, “Hell, no. I’m not playing Indian Wells. Are you out of your mind?”
The most amazing thing is that they keep asking, like it never happened. But you don’t get past racial tension by forgetting about it. You don’t just ignore this kind of prejudice and hope it goes away. That’s not how it works. If you sweep it under the rug, one day you’ll lift the rug to redecorate and there it will be.
No, I won’t go back. I will not give these people the validation. I will not stand down. It’s a point of pride. I don’t care what these folks say about me, about how I’m vindictive or stubborn or reading too much into the situation. I actually heard that one, early on, from some official. He said I was making something out of nothing. But I don’t think so. Remember, I was there. I was the target. I know what I know. What I don’t know and what I can’t say for certain is whether or not the small stand my sister and I are taking on Indian Wells will amount to anything in the ongoing fight for equality. Probably it won’t, but you never know. You don’t make these stands to accomplish a specific goal, I’ve come to realize. You make them because they’re right. You make them because, taken together, they add up to something. In all walks of life. At all times. At all costs. You make them because you wouldn’t be here if someone didn’t make them for you, long before you were even born. You make them to ensure that the doors that are at long last open to you will keep from closing. You make them because you can, and because you must. Most of all, you make them because somewhere some little girl might be watching. This little girl might be black or white or brown. She might be rich or poor. She might be a future tennis player or a doctor or a fashion designer. Whatever she wants to be, she can be. It’s like my mom used to always say, all she has to do is set her mind to it and get busy. And all I have to do is set a positive example.
Piece of cake, right?
U stand on the shoulders of your parents and grandparents. Your ancestors made U. Your ancestors made U the best. Think of all they went through for U. Don’t let any girl take away your win, your destiny, your dream. This is opportunity. Yours. This is your time. At last. This is your dream. Make it happen.
—MATCH BOOK ENTRY
FIVE
Faith, Family, Florida
Faith. It’s at the root of everything I do, everything I believe. It’s what gets me out of bed each morning before first light, to head out to the tennis court. And it’s what keeps me believing that anything is possible—not just on the court, but all around.
Without faith, what do we have? What’s the point? Where’s that silent fuel to drive us through our days and get us where we’re going? This kind of thinking was instilled in me when I was little, through the values passed on by my parents and sisters, and through meetings and Bible study. Those Bible verses I cited earlier? I come by them honestly. The scripture that lifts me from a low moment like Indian Wells is in my bones. See, we were raised as Jehovah’s Witnesses, and that foundation has given me a deep conviction in a higher power, a higher purpose. It grounds me, and keeps me whole and looking ahead. Most of all, it places my life in a kind of context and lets me know I’m not just going through the motions but moving instead to some higher purpose. There’s got to be a reason we’re all here on this earth—reaching, striving, pushing—don’t you think?
Now, I do my share of preaching and teaching the good news, but I don’t go door-to-door as much as I’d like, because people recognize me and it gets in the way
of what I’m trying to say. Sometimes, I’ll knock on a door and people will be so surprised to see Serena Williams on the other side that we never quite get around to the reason for my visit. Other times, they’ve got no idea who I am and I’ll have their full attention.
I do my share of reaching out, too, but that’s not for these pages. What’s important to note here is that I feel strongly that we all need to believe in something. Open your heart to the idea that there’s something bigger out there, something bigger than we can know.
In our house, our hearts were opened early on. My mom had been raised in a churchgoing family back in Michigan, and she was looking for a place to keep that going once we moved to California. She was anxious to re-create those all-important points of connection in her new community, but that took some time, I’m afraid. If you’ve ever met my mom, you’ll know that not just any church would do. She’s a spiritual person, but she’s not the most social person on the planet, so those two sides had to fit together. She had to feel comfortable wherever she worshipped. I was too little to know any of this firsthand, but she used to tell my sisters that when she found the right church she’d know it, and that would be all there was to it. Her big thing? She was looking for something real, she used to tell us. Something honest. The truth.
And so she went to a lot of different churches—every week, it seemed, she was trying on another one—but she never really felt a powerful connection until some Jehovah’s Witnesses knocked on our front door one morning. It was like some kind of sign, like God had literally answered her prayers, so she went to a meeting at Kingdom Hall. I’m betting she was skeptical at first, because she didn’t know what to expect, but she took to it, she really did. She went by herself at first, to make sure it was a good fit. After that, we went regularly to meetings, as a family. Enthusiastically, too. In California, that meant every Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday. In Florida, after we’d picked up and moved there so we could kick things up a couple notches in our training, it meant every Sunday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. Yes, it takes up some time, but you don’t really notice the time when you’re at Kingdom Hall. It becomes a part of you, and washes over you, and you’re swept up and set down on the other side of the experience in such a way that the time just flies. Anyway, that’s how it’s been with me. Ever since I was little, sitting next to my sisters, soaking it all in, wanting to be no place else in this whole world.
On the Line Page 9